


husband o' mine

by epanouiii



Series: the husband [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, M/M, Murder Husbands, Other, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24251230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epanouiii/pseuds/epanouiii
Summary: Ginevra thought she was sly.She hadn't met Tom, apparently.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: the husband [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751488
Comments: 44
Kudos: 366





	husband o' mine

**Author's Note:**

> another short-ish one shot.
> 
> i made this because i got inspiration for the other fic i wrote, husband dearest. if u want a bit of context, you can read the other one. doesn't matter when, really, as they aren't key to understanding what's going on. alright enough rambling from me lmao enjoy
> 
> p.s. this is significantly darker than the other fic. I don't know what got into me. like, there's graphic death n shit. so tread carefully my doods
> 
> tw in end notes

_a few months prior . . ._

The doorbell rang.

Tom, after smoothing down his ever-crisp dress shirt, opened the door. He was met with the overly-made up face of Ginevra Weasley. She was smiling, but after she saw that it was Tom who answered the door, it drooped.

It made the fixed smile he wore rise even more. He thought he probably likened the Cheshire Cat with how wide he was grinning.

“Good evening, Ginevra,” he greeted her, bending down to plant a dry kiss on the back of her hand.

She ripped her hand out of his grasp the moment his lips left the freckled flesh.

“Evening, Tom,” she said, her voice tight.

She wore a green evening dress that came to her mid-thigh and a shawl, wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her freckles, unsuccessfully covered by a layer of foundation, stood out against her pale skin. It was cold that night, and she was sure to be feeling it as she waited outside of the warmth his home had to offer.

“Come in,” he said finally, stepping to the side to allow her entry.

She came in and her grip on her shawl loosened. Immediately, she gawked at the entrance room, a showy display that always ensured his visitors envy and awe. He led her to the dining room, passing room after room, their footsteps muffled by the carpet underneath their feet.

The tension that rolled off of her filled the hallway. He could sense her desire to speak; make idle conversation. If only to fill the silence of the hallway, punctuated by the odd creak or groan. He wondered what was stopping her. 

Ginevra cleared her throat as they neared the dining room. She had eventually found her courage, it seemed. “Where’s Harry?” Her eyes jumped from shadow to shadow. The light fixtures located every few feet on the wood-panelled walls gave off a low, sepia lustre. It pervaded the entire house, plunging them into another plane of existence where the weak did not linger.

“He’ll be out shortly," was all he gave her.

They entered and took their seats. Tom sat at the head of the table, and he directed her to sit on his right. She appeared to be at war with herself—should she follow his instructions or should she sit on his left instead?

Unfortunately for her, she chose to sit on his left. The grin he had donned before sharpened. Her’s, a thin, red lip that clashed horribly with her hair, broadened. She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to compliment his home, but Harry came strolling in, his arms spread wide like an eagle.

“Ginny!” He exclaimed, pulling her from her chair and into an embrace.

Tom remained seated and simply watched the display. Harry’s hands were placed around the middle of her back, and hers were grasping desperately at his neck. She was ecstatic, of course. Harry had that effect on people. Ginevra’s simple mind was no match for his husband’s allure. Even Tom, a man with a heart of ice, could not help but fall in love with the man.

He was magnificent. His skin was clear, white perfection. His hair, black and gleaming like the feathers of a raven, fell around his green, green eyes. He was tall, lean from years of training, with a slender frame. The outfit he was wearing tonight, tailored to fit, made him looked unbelievably handsome.

Tom almost forgave Ginevra for her affections. Who was she in the face of such exquisiteness.

His Harry was a diamond in the rough when Tom had found him, playing at the local football club while he worked part-time in a café. They’d met during one of Tom’s lunch breaks, when he decided the office was too noisy and he needed some time to himself. Harry gave him his number when he payed for his coffee and, after deliberating on the hastily written numbers, Tom called him the next day. The rest was history.

Harry and Ginevra soon took their seats, their guest having doomed herself twice-over by choosing the left chair again. Harry didn’t bat so much as an eyelash, sitting on Tom’s right.

“So, how’ve you been, Ginny?” Said Harry. “I heard you got a promotion at the shop! I’m so proud of you.”

She adjusted in her seat. Her greedy gaze was focused solely on his husband.

“Thanks, Harry. I worked really hard and I’m glad it finally payed off, you know?”

No, Tom didn’t know. Nor did he care.

He clapped his hands and three servers came out, all carrying three starter courses. A light broth. On the table, there was a variety and bread and cheeses. Tom and Harry placed their napkins in their laps in preparation. Ginevra, looking stubborn but glancing up at Harry, followed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Ginevra’s uncomfortable grimace as the dishes were placed in front of them. A fragrant steam rose up from the bowl and they began to eat. 

It was over quickly, with Harry and Ginevra picking at the bread placed in a porcelain bowl in the centre of the table. Tom lightly ate from his bowl, leaving the bread untouched. The other meals would be more than satisfying.

Her throat bobbed as she took a swig of her champagne.

As they waited for their second course, conversation flowed from Harry and Ginevra, Tom piping in every once and a while, a well-timed quip lashing out from his viper’s tongue. Their guest appeared to be tolerating his presence, looking as if she would rather it were only her and Harry. The notion was amusing. 

He was pulled unwillingly into a debate about this year’s British football team. Choosing to humour Harry, he allowed it.

Anything to wipe that ditzy smile from her face.

.

.

.

It was time for dessert.

Tom clapped for the last time that night, and the servers came in wielding chocolate mousse. It was placed delicately in front of them. The one who held Ginevra’s nodded at Tom, and he smirked.

It appeared the main event would start in any matter of minutes.

“I don’t think I can eat anymore, Harry.” His eyes cut to his guest, brown eyes like rotted earth. “Who even knew you could have so many courses? Not me!”

Harry laughed, telling her an anecdote about his first time dining with Tom.

He remembered it fondly.

They had gone to one of the most notable restaurant’s in town— _La Belle Mort_. A lavish place, one that only the most showy of society frequented. It was precisely the reason he took Harry there. His husband, romantic interest at the time, had been blown away by the number of dishes that were available, all of which he couldn’t pronounce. Tom took great pleasure in helping him decide what to order.

The evening they spent their was particularly memorable, because Harry ended up insulting their French waiter by telling him the restaurant didn’t stink of piss nearly as much as he thought it would, and that they should pat themselves on the back for a job well-done.

They had been promptly booted from the restaurant.

Harry ended up taking him to buy burgers at a food truck on the other side of town, saying “it was the place to be.” Tom had believed him without hesitation. It was almost embarrassing. In the moment, Tom had blamed it on the alcohol he’d consumed at the restaurant.

He would know better later.

During Harry’s retelling, Ginevra had unconsciously began to take bites from her chocolate mousse. Tom watched as her spoon disappeared behind her crimson lips with concealed glee, his eyes tracking the bob of her pale, freckled throat and the hollowing of her similarly marked cheeks.

It was only a matter of time, he thought, leaning back into the smooth velvet of his chair and listening to Harry’s story, interjecting with any of the details Harry missed, too caught up in the drama of his story.

They soon finished their desserts and made their way to the parlour, Harry leading, Ginevra chasing after Harry’s tailcoat, and Tom following closely behind, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the hallway.

The parlour was a large room decorated with old, antique furniture and modern accents. At the centre of the room there were three seats; two single armchairs and a long sofa. All leather, all expensive, and all far beyond Ginevra’s realm of existence. The seats faced a stone fireplace. It blazed, flooding the room with light. The black metal detailing of the grate stood out against the orange of the flames. Above the fireplace was a clock, its face marble and stark against the muted brown of the wall behind it,

Tom’s seat gave way beneath his weight. He balanced his hands over his knee. It bounced almost imperceptibly. They took the sofa, sitting closely enough that Tom almost wanted to intervene.

Almost.

First, he wanted to have his fun. 

“So, Ginevra,” he began. “I understand that you work in a record shop.” The fireplace, lit at the beginning of the evening, flooded the room with heat. The flames danced on the charred, crackling wood, playing shadows on their faces.

Harry’s cheekbones were like cut glass, and his eyes, green and feline, glowed. The room seemed to mould itself around him. Shadows flickering across his shoulders and by his sides. His left hand was splayed out in front of him, the strong, long fingers forming a cage. It trapped the darkness. A product of the flames, as bright and orange as Ginevra’s hair. 

She shifted again, this time even closer to his husband.

“I do,” she said.

Tom’s head tilted, a stubborn cowlick bouncing along. “It’s an interesting line of work, for someone like you. Though not too surprising. I have seen the contents of your family’s bank account, after all.”

The terse clenching of her jaw was highlighted by the fire. Its presence burned all around them. In their smiles, in the corners of the room, in Harry’s eyes. There was no escaping its heat.

“Your _point_ ,” she said, and her pulse jumped. The flames jumped.

Gazing into them, he continued. His voice was a lazy drawl.

“I just wondered why you’ve settled for such a job. It’s interesting. Of course, I understand the pros of working in such a place. I hear you’re a fan of music and due to your promotion, you earn a fair wage.” Her hand ticked away against her polyester dress. Her blue eyes flickered with the same fire that danced in the fireplace.

“But why not try to reach for more? I’m sure that you’re a smart girl. You understand how staying with the the record shop severely limits your opportunities.” His eyes pierced the place where hers and Harry’s thighs touched. Harry didn’t seem to be paying attention, his jewelled eyes swirling like a vortex. “Although, I suppose you didn’t _settle_ for just the promotion.” He spat, more a snake than human. His voice was venomous, and his eyes were mere slits in his face.

“You wanted what was mine.”

The clock struck midnight and out from Ginevra’s lips came a spray of blood. It coated the carpet in a thin layer of crimson. What didn’t escape her mouth trailed down the corner of her mouth. You couldn’t see the difference between her lipstick and the blood.

“Did you honestly that you would be able to take my Harry away from me?” She coughed and more blood came pouring out from her mouth; a great, black pit from which he would derive his vengeance. The blood was a small river, staining her dress and coated her palms.

Harry, blinking slowly, stood up from his place beside her and came to sit on the armrest of Tom’s chair. Tom gripped his clothed thigh, feeling the muscle weld itself to his fingertips, the lax fat that sat just below the surface of his flesh. 

He felt powerful.

“You are delusional if you think you ever had a chance.”

Her eyes were bloodshot, the blue of her iris deluged with red, red, red. It flowed down her arms, pooled in her lap, before spilling onto the floor. Around her existed a lake of her life essence, stolen from her by the very man whom she so desperately lusted after. She looked up at them, her hand covering her mouth, blood dripping down her wrist despite it.

What a picture they made. Tom on his throne, his husband at his side. Their eyes daggers, their faces painted in fire, the shadows bent to their will.

They were kings.

“I only wish I could have more time with you. However, it seems that your time with us is over.”

With one great final lurch, Ginevra keeled over, her body collapsing on the blood-stricken carpet.

Harry’s smile was radiant.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: murder, slight gore, unhealthy relationship dynamics  
> 
> 
> tada!!
> 
> my [tumblr](https://epanouiii.tumblr.com) if u wanna see me shitposting ig lol


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